


Harry Potter and the Case of the Pilfered Potions

by avioleta



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Almost epilogue compliant, Bookseller!Snape, First Time, HP: Epilogue Compliant, M/M, Paris (City), Private Detective!Harry, Private Investigators, Slow Build, Snape is Alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-10 00:53:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3270668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avioleta/pseuds/avioleta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Original prompt: “Private detective Potter finds himself alone at Christmas time.  He has loads to do, cases to solve, but he comes home to a lonely and cold flat.  Little does he know that a case will lead him to love."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harry Potter and the Case of the Pilfered Potions

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for Snarry Swap 2014 as a gift for [](http://me_midget.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://me_midget.livejournal.com/)**me_midget**
> 
> Especial thanks to Dupond_et_Dupont for correcting my wretched French.
> 
> Past, non-explicit reference to Harry/Ginny; past, non-explicit reference to Severus/original female character, brief mention Harry/OMCs

  
** Harry Potter and the Case of the Pilfered Potions **  


“Harry, mate,” Ron says, stepping into Harry’s office, “I’m gonna head out, unless there’s something else I need to take care of tonight.”

“No.” He quickly slips the file he’s been holding under the stack of papers on his desk. “I don’t think so. I’m just finishing up here myself.” He laughs. “Hey, you know the Winchester case?”

“Yeah?” Ron wraps a red and navy scarf around his neck. Ever since Rose sorted Ravenclaw in August, Molly’s added a good deal of blue to her knitting.

“I caught him trying to declare his sailboat as a work vehicle.”

Ron grins. “That’s awesome. Er, I mean, that’s good for our client. More assets eligible for division.”

Harry nods. “Of course.”

“Anything new this afternoon?” Ron asks, glancing at the basket labelled ‘Incoming’ perched on top of the filing cabinet.

“Nothing that can’t wait till next week.”

“Great.” Ron pulls on his overcoat. “I wanted to get a little shopping done. You know, beat the crowds.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “You mean beat the other procrastinators who’ve waited until 23 December to begin their shopping?”

“Right,” Ron grins. “So we’ll see you Boxing Day?”

“Yeah.” Harry runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Okay.” Ron bites his lip, clearly hesitating. Harry hates the look of pity he sees flash across his expression. “You know,” he continues, “you’re welcome to come to Mum’s tomorrow for dinner. Gin and Michael will be there, of course, but the kids will be there too, and I know they’d love to have their dad there on Christmas Eve.”

But Harry’s already shaking his head. “No. Gin’s got Christmas this year. I’ll see them for New Year’s. We’ll have a week before James and Al go back to school.”

Ron nods. “I know, but you’re family too. It’s not the same without you.”

“Thanks, but it’s better this way.” Harry smiles, but his chest feels tight. It kills him not to be able to spend Christmas with his kids.

Ron twists the end of his scarf between his fingers. “You could stop by our house Christmas morning. Hermione makes cinnamon buns, and Rosie and Hugo would like to see their godfather.”

“Maybe,” Harry hedges, but he already knows he won’t. As much as he loves his niece and nephew, seeing them on Christmas day when he can’t see his own children would be difficult, and the last thing he wants is to make anyone else miserable.

“Good, good,” Ron says, turning to go, “because there’s no need for you to be alone.” He pauses in the doorway and looks back. “Oh, I meant to ask, did you find anything out in the Zabini case?”

“No,” Harry lies, looking down and pretending to sort a few papers on his desk. “But with the holiday, I don’t expect Anderson to make his report until start of next week.”

“Right,” Ron says, and he chuckles. “I still can’t believe Parkinson and Zabini hired us.”

Harry can’t disagree. It _was_ strange when Pansy Parkinson (now Zabini) appeared at their office the week before. “But we don’t take on many Wizarding cases and, seeing as how the perp is almost certainly a wizard, I suppose it makes sense. They appreciate the discretion we can provide.”

“Yeah, but still…” Ron shakes his head. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“It’s a business transaction.” Harry shrugs. “Besides, I’d like to think we’ve moved past our childhood rivalries by now.”

“Maybe.” Ron shoves his hands in his pockets. “But you still have to admit, it feels pretty good.”

“Except for the part where we actually have to work with them.”

“Touché.”

Blaise and Pansy Zabini opened a small apothecary shop in Diagon Alley three years earlier. It had been decades since Slug & Jiggers had had any local competitors and, within months, Snakes and Sceptres was making considerable profits. They’d stolen quite a bit of business from their counterpart simply by virtue of their clean and modern—not to mention odour free—store. But they also did a great deal of Owl Order business—a practice Slug & Jiggers had never embraced.

The case involved alleged stolen trade secrets. Several potions using the Zabinis’ patented recipes had recently appeared on the market. When they were unable to identify the seller or determine where the potions in question originated, they hired the Private Detective Firm of Potter and Weasley to investigate before the illicit supplier did too much damage to their bottom line.

“All right,” Ron says, pulling on his gloves. “Floo if you want to stop by Christmas morning. Otherwise we’ll see you on Boxing Day.”

“Okay,” Harry responds as Ron heads to the door; he turns his coat collar up against the cold. Harry watches him out the window as he disappears down the street. The mist outside has turned to sleet—typical for this time of year. Though, for days the forecasters have been predicting snow on Christmas. If that happens, it will be the first white Christmas London has seen in decades. The thought makes Harry feel strangely sad. It won’t be his first Christmas without his kids, but that doesn’t make it any easier. And Harry can’t help but feel a bit nostalgic around the holidays.

It always snowed at Hogwarts on Christmas.

A Muggle cab drives by on the street outside, splashing water up on the kerb. Its lights glare against the window, startling Harry from his thoughts.

He slips the file out from under the stack again, smoothing his hand across its surface. He should put it away, call it quits for the evening, but he can’t help himself.

Anderson’s initial report is clipped inside.

Using the samples the Zabinis provided, Harry had located a potential source for the magic, and they’d sent their associate, Leonidas Anderson, to conduct the initial survey.

It had been relatively simple to trace the source of the suspect potions. Six years on the Auror force and another eight in the private sector, and Harry has his tracking spells honed to a fine art. He and Ron often joked that they didn’t understand why more wizards didn’t become private investigators. There was money to be had in the Muggle world, and the Muggles’ own detective techniques were woefully inadequate.

Harry’s coordinates were good, and Anderson had returned within hours.

He doesn’t remove the parchment with Anderson’s neatly printed notes. It’s only the preliminary findings, and he’s read them a half dozen times already. Instead, he takes the single, glossy photograph from the file; Harry stares down at it as the scene plays out again, just as it has the hundred or so other times he’s watched it today.

It’s a street in Paris. Rue Mouffetard. Which, according to Anderson’s notes, lies on the Left Bank near the edge of the Wizarding quarter. In the photo, a man steps out of a shop, pausing to lock the door. The sign reads simply: _Livres Rares_ , and the small line of block letters beneath advertises: “ _Livres anciens et modernes varies._ ”

The man turns and, though it’s no longer a surprise, Harry’s breath catches at the sight. It’s been years, but he still recognises that face. The man’s dark hair is shorter now, and even in the picture, Harry can tell it’s threaded with silver. His hands, pale and elegant as he slips them in his pockets, are the same hands Harry watched countless times manipulating instruments in the lab. And his nose. Harry would know that nose anywhere.

“Snape,” Harry whispers, and the word feels foreign on his tongue. It’s been over a decade since he’s uttered it. “What are you doing? Where have you been all these years?”

The scene resets itself again, and Harry watches once more as Severus Snape exits the shop, turning to secure the wards. When he turns, he ducks his head slightly, face shielded from the camera, but it doesn’t matter. It’s him. Alive after all this time.

Harry closes his eyes.

That night after it was all over, after Harry finally defeated Voldemort, he went back to the Shack, but Snape’s body was gone. They’d looked for him, of course. And Harry had insisted that they continue the search long after everyone else had lost interest, but they never found him. They assumed his body had been taken by Death Eaters.

It always bothered Harry. How wrong he’d been. How much they’d misjudged him.

He’d kept the vial of Snape’s memories in his bedside cabinet long after he’d appeared before the Wizengamot to clear Snape’s name.

And now it turns out he’s alive. Alive and living in France, of all places, selling illicit potions.

Harry shakes his head. He should tell Ron; he isn’t sure why he hasn’t, actually.

No. That’s a lie.

After the battle, Ron always thought he was a little obsessed with Snape, and now… Now that the man’s apparently back from the dead, Harry can’t help but feel that the knowledge is private. After all, as far as Harry knows, no one has heard from Snape since he disappeared after the battle. The man has clearly gone to great lengths to remain hidden and part of Harry wonders if maybe they shouldn’t just leave him be.

Anderson didn’t recognise him, but then again, he wouldn’t have done. Anderson was barely in primary school nineteen years ago when Severus Snape’s body vanished from the Shrieking Shack. Increasingly, the details of the war are becoming the stuff of history books and legend, not everyday common knowledge.

Harry closes the file and slips it into his desk drawer. He waves a hand, murmuring an incantation, and feels the wards shift into place. The magic sparks against his palm and pulses briefly in his chest—like a heartbeat, a rush of blood—then it’s gone. Harry rubs at his eyes, pushes his glasses up to his forehead.

He’s tired, and he doesn’t know what to think about this case, about Snape.

It’s been nearly twenty years, but the memories of that night are crystal clear. He can feel the echoes of Voldemort’s magic, dark and unnatural. He can smell the stench of it—the spells that hung in the air like petrol in the dank, cool Shack. And the blood—Snape’s blood. It had seeped through Harry’s jeans as he knelt on the floor. He can still feel it, slick and sickeningly warm against his hands. He can taste the coppery tang of it on his tongue, and, when he closes his eyes at night, he can see it as it spilled down Snape’s throat to pool in his collarbones and stain his shirt a vivid red.

He takes a deep breath and tries to force the images away. Snape is alive; somehow he survived that blasted snake. Harry has no idea how, but he’ll find out.

He stands and grabs his coat. Outside, the sky is dark and overcast, the wind biting against his skin. He locks the door and secures the wards before heading downstairs to his adjoining flat.

When Harry and Ron had opened their detective firm eight years before, they set up their offices in the spare room in Harry and Gin’s Kensington townhouse. But Lily was barely four months old, and Ginny, stressed with the new baby and already irritated at Harry for quitting his prestigious position in the Aurors Corps, hadn’t taken well to the arrangement. It was one of the final straws that led to their divorce, but Harry knows they’d been heading that way for quite some time. In retrospect, the baby was clearly a last ditch effort to save their failing marriage, but it hadn’t been enough. Later that year, Ginny filed on the grounds of unreasonable behaviour. Harry hates to admit that he’d been relieved.

He moved out the following week. Ginny kept the house; she loved it there, and though they agreed to share custody, Harry had never needed or wanted so much space. He took a flat in Soho, and he and Ron worked out of there for a while, but soon they realised that they needed a proper office. So, when Ron came across the shop-front on Edgware Road, they didn’t hesitate to sign the lease.

Business is good, and Harry loves the neighbourhood. He loves the lively, chaotic vibe, and the diverse culture. He loves the coffee shops, _shisha_ cafes, Lebanese restaurants, and Middle Eastern clubs lining the streets. And he loves the distinct smell of hookah and rose flower oil that always seems to permeate the air.

When the lower ground floor flat became available a year or so after they opened their new office, Harry jumped at the opportunity, and he’s lived here ever since.

At first he missed the nightlife and bars of Soho, but the Tube station’s just two blocks away when he doesn’t feel like Apparating, and he wouldn’t trade the bustling paved streets of Edgware for anything.

Once inside, Harry flicks on the lights and waves his wand at the hearth, causing the flames to spring to life. Despite the heating charms, it’s always cold in his flat this time of year.

He finds a takeaway container with leftover lo mein in the fridge and grabs a beer, then heads to the den and turns on the telly. There’s nothing good on. The holiday specials are just depressing, so he settles on a rerun of an old cricket match. India is winning by 21 runs. Harry watches as the bowler bowls to the English batsman; he strikes the ball and runs to the other end of the pitch. Harry changes the channel again before stabbing a piece of broccoli with his chopstick.

He can’t stop thinking about Snape.

He knows he has to go to Paris, and not because Blaise and Pansy Zabini are paying him to. He has to see what Snape has been doing for the last twenty years.

Harry understands why Snape left England. Even though he was eventually pardoned posthumously of all his crimes, Harry is not naïve enough to think the same outcome would have been guaranteed had Snape been present to stand trial. After all, it’s far easier to forgive the dead than acquit the living. And, regardless of Snape’s motivations or what side he was on in the end, Harry knows he was still guilty of war crimes. They all were. But Snape was a Death Eater turned spy, and the court of public opinion is far more tolerant of Boy Heroes than Death Eaters, regardless of their ultimate affiliations.

Had Harry been in Snape’s position, he probably would have fled the country, too.

***

It’s snowing when Harry wakes up. Pale, wet light filters through the lead-paned glass of his window; the sky is a slate gray. He rolls out of bed, wincing as bare feet hit the cold wood floor, and folds his arms across his chest against the chill as he heads across the hall to the loo to piss and brush his teeth. Once back in his room, Harry dresses quickly, pulling on worn jeans and an old Weasley jumper.

He Apparates to the corner of Rue Mouffetard and Rue Saint-Médard.

It’s raining in Paris. Harry casts a quick _Impervius_ on his glasses before shoving his hands in his pockets and heading across the street. The tiny bookshop is sandwiched between a café and a law firm—offices of Bernard, Martin, and Dubois. Harry stands on the kerb and watches for a few minutes.

A harried-looking woman walks past him, hand clutching a reluctant toddler. He’s bundled up to the nines against the cold, only his eyes and nose visible between his woollen cap and muffler. Harry laughs. He remembers when Gin would dress the boys like that; at the first sign of winter, the boots, overcoats, scarves, and mittens would come out. Now, it’s all he can do to get Jamie and Al to remember their coats.

A few shoppers exit the store, arms laden with packages, and a Muggle kid on a bike weaves past, tyres splashing on wet cobblestones. Harry closes his eyes for a moment, steeling himself. He approaches the shop and cautiously peers in the window, half expecting to see Severus Snape standing there, staring back at him.

He’s not, of course.

Harry’s breath fogs the glass as he looks inside. The small space is lined with row upon row of shelves, each crammed to the ceiling with books. There’s a counter to one side where a young girl stands behind a cash register, magazine in hand. There are a few customers milling about, browsing the shelves, finishing up last-minute Christmas shopping.

He takes a steadying breath and enters the shop, bell clanging as the door shuts behind him. “Bonjour! Joyeux Noël,” the clerk calls out cheerfully, without looking up.

Harry keeps his head down, walking between the long rows of books. He feels magic here, but it’s subtle—something the Muggles no doubt write off, attributing it to the quaintness of the shop or the arcane nature of the books. He doesn’t recognise the titles. Most are, naturally, in French. Many are clearly very old. He takes one from the shelf, running his fingers over it; the binding is worn, the cover a smooth, buttery leather.

He hears footsteps behind him but doesn’t turn. Instead he slowly replaces the book on the shelf.

“Mr. Potter, may I ask what you’re doing in my shop?”

The words slide along Harry’s nerves; it feels as though he’s stepped back in time. Snape’s voice sounds exactly as it did twenty years ago.

Harry turns around slowly; the man is staring at him. Snape’s dressed casually in black wool slacks and a white button-down shirt. His black hair, though shorter than it used to be, still hangs lankly beside his face. It’s shot through with gray; Snape’s older now. They all are.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I do own this place. It’s only appropriate that I be here.” Snape’s tone is calm, his posture casual, yet there is something in his expression that Harry can’t read.

Harry shakes his head; he can’t help but laugh. “You’re supposed to be dead, Snape. You know that.”

Snape glances over his shoulder to the girl at the counter. Though she appears to be reading her magazine, Harry can tell she’s listening. “ _Collette, une livraison est arrivée cet après-midi. Pouvez-vous enregistrer les nouveaux livres, s'il vous plait ?_ ”

“ _Oui, Monsieur Prince_ ,” she says, heading to the back of the shop.

Harry frowns at the name Prince, but says nothing.

“Now, I’ll ask you again, Potter, what are you doing in my shop?”

He doesn’t answer; he’s not ready to tell Snape about the case and the Zabinis’ accusations, not until he finds out what Snape is doing here. Instead, he walks down the narrow row of books, trailing his fingers along their spines. “You sell magic books?” Harry asks, stopping at a section labelled: _le surnaturel et histoires magiques_. He pulls a particularly ancient-looking tome off the shelf; it sparks against his palm. There is no title, just a series of runes on the cover.

“I sell all sorts of books,” Snape answers noncommittally.

“To Muggles?” Harry replaces the book and scans the rest of the titles. As far as Harry can tell, there is nothing of the likes of _The Darkest Arts_ , but many of the texts would certainly belong in the Restricted Section at Hogwarts.

“I monitor all purchases, and I restrict the sale of anything potentially dangerous.”

Harry turns back to look at Snape. The man is leaning against the opposite shelf, arms folded across his chest. Though he appears disinterested, Harry can sense the unease in his expression. He understands, of course, the man’s supposed to be dead. That he’s alive at all decades later is clear cause for alarm. If word gets out, Harry knows that there are those in England and the Ministry that would have him arrested without a thought.

“Anything truly harmful, or especially expensive for that matter,” Snape continues after a moment, “I keep warded. Now tell me, Mr. Potter, what are you doing here?”

“Christmas shopping?” Harry tries. He doesn’t know what to say; this entire experience is surreal.

Snape actually snorts. “In Paris?”

He shrugs. “I was in the area.”

Snape raises an eyebrow. The gesture is at once so familiar and connected to completely distant memories; it’s unsettling. “You were in the area?”

“Well, I was after I Apparated,” Harry admits. Then, “You’re _alive_.” He can’t help the disbelief that seeps into his voice. Though Harry knew, after receiving Anderson’s report two days before, that Snape had somehow survived Nagini’s bite all those years before, seeing Snape in person—seeing him _here_ standing in front of him in this Parisian book shop—twenty years older, not bleeding, and alive, ( _alive_ ), is enough to throw his entire world off kilter.

“Obviously,” Snape says. “Now, as much as I enjoy discussing my state of continued existence, if that’s all, I have work to do.”

“I, no…” Harry stops him as he walks to the end of row. The bookshop is small, barely fifteen metres from end to end, but there’s a backroom and a stairway leading to the upper floor. “Is that where you brew your potions?”

“My potions?” Snape frowns. “I’m sorry, Potter, are you here in an official capacity? Because I can’t see how these questions are any of your concern. The British Aurors have no jurisdiction here.” He pauses, mouth a thin line. “Unless you mean to attempt to take me bodily back to England, but I was under the impression that I was cleared of all charges years ago.”

“ _We_ were under the impression that you were dead!” Harry counters hotly. He’s thirty-eight years old, yet the man can still, apparently, get under his skin.

“And that matters?” Snape sounds indignant, but Harry can hear the concern in his voice.

“I’m not an Auror, Snape,” Harry assures. “Haven’t been for years.”

“Really?” Snape looks genuinely surprised. “And here I thought you’d dedicated your life to committing acts of heroism and bravery for the greater Wizarding public.”

“Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint.” Suddenly Harry doesn’t want to do this anymore. He doesn’t want Snape, of all people, criticising his life choices. “I’ll see you around, Snape,” he says, turning to leave the shop.

“I should certainly hope not, Mr. Potter. I should certainly hope not.”

***

Christmas morning dawns bright and cold.

Harry hears the buzz of the Floo down the hall. He rolls over, pulling the covers up. His head is throbbing; pain jars at his skull. He tries to remember how many beers he had last night. The Floo buzzes again and Harry groans, rolling out of bed. He grabs his bathrobe from the back of the chair, then rummages in the bedside drawer for the vial of Pepperup he knows is there.

He pulls the stopper out of the vial with his teeth and downs half the potion as he walks down the hall to the den.

“Dad! Dad!” He hears Lily’s voice as he opens the door. Her head is peering out of the fireplace, her hair as red as the flames.

“Hey, love,” he says, kneeling in front of the hearth. The potion has dulled the throb of his skull a bit, and he smiles at his daughter.

“Happy Christmas!” She grins; her two front teeth are missing. “Mum said I could Floo. I have to show you what I got for presents.”

Harry sits cross-legged on the floor while Lily holds one item up into the fire followed by another. Her Weasley jumper is a mustard yellow; a tiny dragon curls around her name, stitched in block letters across the front. “Is that…?” Harry asks as Lily sets a ridiculously pink Pygmy Puff back down beside her.

“Oh, yeah, it’s a Hungarian Horntail,” she says, glancing down at her jumper. “Mum says you battled one once. Nearly gave her a heart attack.”

Harry laughs; it’s been ages since he thought about the Triwizard Tournament. “She’s right, you know. And that Horntail was a vicious dragon, too.”

“Yeah. It’s pretty cool, I guess,” Lily says unenthusiastically. “Not as cool as Uncle Charlie, though.”

“No,” Harry agrees, shaking his head, “not as cool as Uncle Charlie.”

“Lily!” Harry hears Gin’s voice in the background. “You need to get dressed. Let your brothers say Happy Christmas to your father.”

Lily rolls her eyes. We’re going to lunch with Grandma and Grandpa Corner. Mum says I have to look nice.”

“Sounds like a good plan.” Harry runs a hand through his hair. “Tell Jamie and Al to come say hullo. I’ll see you in four days, love.”

“Okay. Love you, Dad,” she says, disappearing in a swirl of green.

Harry summons a bottle of water from the kitchen and takes a long swig. Despite the Pepperup, a hangover is threatening.

“Hey, Dad!” Al appears a few minutes later. He’s wearing a navy cardigan; his green and silver tie is askew.

“Hey, kid, you having a good Christmas?”

“Yeah!” Al grins. “Pretty awesome, actually. Mum and Michael got Jamie and me new Galaxy 1650s!” He tugs at his tie. “We hardly had time to try ‘em out, though because we’re going to lunch.”

“Wow.”

“I know! Can you believe it? The new Galaxy.”

“Yeah, that’s awesome.” Harry smiles, but in truth he’s upset. Ever since they announced the December release of the anticipated new broom last spring, Harry had planned on buying them for the boys for Christmas. But he made the mistake of asking Gin if she wanted the brooms to be a joint gift, and she said she and Michael were already getting them. Harry didn’t believe her; he knew the brooms were his idea, but Gin had jumped at it—anything to get Jamie and Al to take to Michael.

Harry understands, but he still resents her for it a little bit.

Ginny’s marriage to Michael Corner three summers before had been difficult for everyone, but the boys took it especially hard. Even though it had been years since he and Gin had been married, Harry thinks Jamie, in particular, still harboured some vague hope that they’d get back together. Of course it was never going to happen, but he can’t blame Jamie for his wishful thinking; it’s natural for kids to want their parents to be together.

Harry’s happy for Gin, of course. He really is. But even now, seven years after the divorce, the fact that his marriage fell apart still makes him feel ill. Still, Ginny should be with someone who can give her everything she deserves, and it’s been ages since he’s been able to do that.

“You’ll have to bring the brooms when you come stay with me at the end of the week,” Harry says. “Well give them a true trying out.”

“Dad only wants us to bring ‘em so he can ride one, don’t you, Dad?” Jamie’s head pops into the flames beside Al. “One of us’ll be stuck on your old Firebolt all weekend, while you ride a Galaxy.”

Harry laughs. “You know me too well, son.”

The boys grin, and then Jamie says, “Come on. Mum says it’s time to go.”

Harry waves, wishing them a ‘Happy Christmas’ as they disappear into the flames. He’s just about to close the connection when Gin pops her head through.

“Hullo, Harry.” She frowns. “Merlin, you look dreadful.”

He laughs. “Thanks for noticing.”

“Rough night?” Ginny looks impeccable, as always. Her red hair is twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck; a tendril escapes and curls around her throat. Her pale skin is lovely against the black silk of her blouse.

“Something like that.”

“Did you go out? There’s this new place in Islington that Michael and I are dying to try, but with the baby, of course, it’s just hard to find the time.”

Michael and Gin’s daughter Helena is eight months old and, according to Ron, the fussiest Weasley yet.

“No,” Harry says. “I didn’t go anywhere. It’s been a difficult last few days at work, is all.”

Gin purses her lips. “Maybe that’s what you need, then. A good night out.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Well, take a Pepperup. You look like you need it.”

“Will do,” he says, not bothering to tell her that he already has done. “See you on Saturday. Still planning to drop the kids around lunchtime?”

“Yes.” She nods, and then adds, “Happy Christmas, Harry,” before closing the Floo connection.

Harry lies back against the rug and traces a whorl in the blue wool with his thumb. Maybe Gin’s right. Maybe he does need a good night out. Harry can’t even remember the last time he went on a proper date. There was the guy he exchanged blowjobs with in the loo of 12 Bar, but that had to have been six months ago. And Harry didn’t even invite him back to his place afterwards.

His friends are all happily coupled off by now, and, frankly, Harry’s too old for the club scene. Sure, he and Ron grab a pint after work sometimes, and he eats lunch with Hermione and Luna every month, but that’s about the extent of his social life.

Harry sits up, pulling his knees to his chest and sighs; he needs to stop feeling sorry for himself. He has three amazing kids, great friends, and a job that keeps him busy. What more could he ask for?

He heads to the kitchen and fills the kettle, setting the water to boil with a flick of his wand and grabbing the box of PG Tips from the cupboard. He may be a wizard, but the Muggles got it right with teabags. Less of a chance of seeing a Grim or some other portent of evil in the bottom of his mug, at least.

Harry pours hot water over the bag to steep before rummaging in the fridge for some eggs and cheese. The Pepperup might not have cured his headache, but it’s nothing a decent fry-up won’t improve.

After breakfast, Harry spends the rest of the morning researching. Now that they have an address and a place of employment and Harry has confirmed that the man in Anderson’s report actually _is_ Snape, it’s a fairly routine process to uncover more information.

Snape has been living under the name of Stephen Prince, an alias he apparently adopted just hours after the Battle of Hogwarts in a Muggle hospital in Edinburgh.

Stephen Prince checked himself in to hospital in the early hours of 3 May 1998, suffering from significant blood loss and puncture and laceration wounds to the throat and neck. He was treated before checking out AMA two days later.

The name change makes sense. Prince, of course, was Snape’s mother’s name and is a more common surname (and therefore less recognisable) than Snape. And Stephen is clearly worlds more common and therefore more discreet than Severus. When one wants to disappear, it is better to blend in.

There are no records of Stephen Prince in Britain after the night he left Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, and Harry finds no mention of him in France for years. He’s not sure if he spent any time in England or if he relocated to France immediately. Snape had sold his father’s house at Spinner’s End three months prior to the final battle. He had no other property. After his disappearance and presumed death, Severus Snape’s vault at Gringotts was emptied. Bank records yield nothing of note. There were a few family heirlooms, but nothing of much value. Harry understands now. Snape was anticipating the worst. He’d no doubt secured his funds where he could access them later without notice.

A quick search of the Department of Magical Transportation’s database reveals nothing. There are no requisition requests for international Portkeys out of Britain made by a Stephen Prince (or anyone else suspect, for that matter). But Harry hadn’t expected there to be. After all, Snape has magic enough to make undetectable Portkeys in his sleep. And he was a spy for years; no doubt he perfected the art one hundred times over.

And, of course, there are other ways to get to the continent. International Apparition requires a great deal of power. Aside from himself, Harry knows very few wizards capable, but he’d be willing to bet that Snape is. And though you’re supposed to register your Apparition coordinates before making an international jump—the Ministry claims it’s for the wizard’s safety in the event of a splinching—no one ever does.

Harry finds employment records for Stephen Prince dating from 2001. It appears Snape worked in the same shop on Rue Mouffetard until he purchased it from the aging owner in 2008. Since then, the rare bookstore has been doing modest but steady business. Harry’s not certain when Snape began selling potions—he might have been all along. There is no record of it. But Snape was hiding from the magical world. He would have taken every effort to conceal those transactions. Had Blaise and Pansy Zabini not recognised the recipes in Snape’s potions and decided to hire an investigator, most likely Snape would have never been found.

After all, no one was looking for him. Severus Snape was dead. And Stephen Prince had remained successfully hidden for twenty years.

Harry leans back, rocking his chair onto two legs. He still can’t quite wrap his head around the fact that Snape is alive, even though he was standing in front of him, speaking to him not twenty-four hours before.

Harry closes his laptop and pushes back from the table. He has to go back to France.

***

It’s raining when he Apparates to the corner of Rue Mouffetard and Rue Saint-Médard.

He pulls his scarf up over his mouth against the cold and casts a Disillusionment Charm before heading down the block towards Snape’s shop.

The street is quiet. It’s Christmas day; all the shops are closed.

A couple walks past, laughing. They don’t notice Harry, of course. There’s no one else out.

Snape’s shop is dark; the sign on the door reads _Fermé_. When Harry peers in the glass, though, he sees a light on in the back. Snape sits in a worn leather chair reading. A cup of tea floats at his elbow.

Harry watches him for several minutes. Snape wears reading glasses now. Harry sees Snape’s fingers, slender and pale, as he pushes the glasses up on the bridge of his nose. He crosses his leg, resting an ankle on his other knee, then takes a sip of tea, turns the page.

Snape looks…content.

Harry thinks back to school. He remembers Snape’s sallow skin, the dark shadows that purpled his eyes. Snape always looked so tired, yet, at the same time, he was constantly on edge. Harry understands. They were at war, and Snape was a spy.

Now the war feels like a lifetime ago.

Snape looks at his watch and stands, replacing the book on a nearby shelf, before disappearing up the back stairs, teacup trailing behind.

Property records show that Snape has lived in the flat above his shop for the past six years. Harry doesn’t have a previous address. With a little work, he’s certain he could find it, but there’s no need. After all, he’s on a job. The only reason he went digging into Snape’s past at all was to see if he could find a money trail for the potions. Or, that’s what Harry tells himself, at least.

He’s about to leave when Snape comes down the stairs again. He’s got his overcoat on, a gray woollen scarf in his hand.

Harry backs away from the window, ducking into the entryway of the shop next door. With the Disillusionment charm, he can’t be seen. But Harry knows Snape, knows the man can sense the magic.

Snape wards the door, then turns, heading down the street in the opposite direction from where Harry is hiding. He waits a few moments before following, being careful to keep his distance, as Snape walks down Rue Descartes. It’s cold; Harry can see his breath before it dissipates into the charm. He shoves his hands into his pockets and hurries to keep pace with Snape’s long strides.

Harry’s been to Paris before. He and Gin came years ago, before Jamie was born. They spent their days wandering about the city, drinking too much wine, and their nights in the hotel room, twined naked together in white sheets. Even now, it’s a fond memory. He’s been back a few times since with Ron, tracking down one lead or another. He likes it here, likes the narrow stone streets that are usually bustling with activity. He likes the cafés with their wine and their music. He likes the history, the monuments at every turn. And he likes the French, likes the snippets of conversations he overhears as he tries to puzzle out their meaning.

Snape turns onto Rue des Écoles. There’s a woman waiting on a bench in front of the Hotel Saint Jacques. She smiles when she see Snape approaching and stands. He greets her warmly, leaning down to kiss her on both cheeks. Then they walk together, Snape’s gloved hand resting on the small of her back.

The woman is pretty, younger than Snape. Harry thinks she’s ten, maybe twelve years older than he is; he can’t tell for certain. She’s covered her hair with a scarf, but he can see dark curls beneath it. Harry is too far away to hear their conversation, but they walk close together, heads bent towards each other. Something about the intimacy, the familiarity of it, makes Harry’s stomach turn. He suddenly feels inexplicably, inappropriately jealous, and it makes him angry.

Harry knows it’s because he’s lonely; after all, why else would he be jealous of Snape, jealous of the relationship he has with some Parisian woman he knows nothing about? It’s pathetic.

He’s angry that he’s here, tailing his ex-professor on Christmas Day. Sure, it’s for a case, but there’s absolutely nothing to be gained that can’t wait until next week; he’s only following Snape now because he has nothing better to do, and Snape has never failed to get under his skin. Which is bloody depressing when he thinks about it. But Snape always seemed like the type who didn’t need anyone. He was always alone at Hogwarts, and though Harry knows Snape loved his mum once a long time ago, he assumed it was some sort of platonic thing. That’s ridiculous, of course, the childish idea that his mum was only ever with his dad, but he can’t help it. And Harry always hated Snape so much; he supposes it's natural to think that everyone else would hate him, too.

He kicks at a loose stone on the street, feeling miserable.

They walk another three blocks northwest along Rue des Écoles before turning right on Rue Saint-Jacques. Bistros and shops line the narrow street. There are flats above; the pale limestone buildings rise up several more storeys to slate-coloured roofs. Wrought iron balconies line the upper floors and stone window boxes edge the tall windows. They’re bare now and snow-lined, but come springtime they’ll be overflowing with blooms. Harry has seen green ivy and pink bougainvillea spilling down the cream-coloured walls.

He can hear the loud peal of church bells as they turn the corner onto Rue des Prêtres Saint-Séverin.

The stone facade of Église Saint-Séverin stretches up to the wintry sky.

The church’s exterior is adorned with stone gargoyles and arched with flying buttresses. Parishioners mill about in the gated courtyard. Children, their pea coats and winter cloaks bundled over Sunday suits and Christmas dresses, dart in between the gray stone columns of the churchyard. Their parents laugh and catch up with friends, keeping a watchful eye as their offspring burn off extra energy before the service starts.

Harry pauses at the gate, watching as Snape and the woman make their way through the crowd to the church's entrance. The bas-relief of St. Martin de Tours welcomes them as they walk through the main door.

Harry doesn't follow. He already feels like an interloper, intruding on something private.

Instead, he turns, Apparating to the dark emptiness of his flat.

***

“I find it so peculiar,” Luna says, reaching across her husband to set the bottle of wine on the end table, “that women pay you to find out things they absolutely don’t want to know.”

Ron laughs, leaning back to rest his head in Hermione’s lap. “Men pay us, too, Luna. It’s not just the women who have cheating spouses.”

“Well, of course not,” she says, waving her glass. Red wine sloshes over the lip and onto her hand. She licks the droplets off. “But it’s _still_ rather strange, isn’t it?”

Harry takes a swig of beer; the bottle is cold and slick against his palm. “Strange or not, the philanderers keep up in business.” They’re at Hannah and Neville’s flat in West End. It’s a tradition that Harry and his friends celebrate Boxing Day together, and he has every intention of getting pissed. Gin’s got the kids for another three days, Hugo and Rose are with the Grangers, the twins are staying with Rolf’s parents in Dorset, and Hannah and Neville’s four-month-old, Marcus, is—for the time being, at least—asleep in his cot down the hall.

“I think some people pay for peace of mind,” Hannah says, emerging from the kitchen with a tray. “It’s not like they’re always cheating, right? I mean, sometimes you uncover good news.”

“True,” Ron says, “but they’re usually cheating.” He sits up again to reach for one of whatever Hannah’s brought.

“They’re samosas,” she says, adding “and they’re hot,” as Ron drops the pastry on the platter again. She sets the tray on the coffee table.

“Those look lovely,” Hermione says, refilling her wine glass. “What’s in them?”

Hannah sits down on the floor beside her husband, tucking her legs beneath her. “Potatoes, bits of peas and carrots, and spices. Lots of spice.”

“We’re expanding the menu at The Leaky,” Neville says. “Hannah thinks the regulars might like some Indian fare.”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Luna says, taking a samosa from the platter. She picks it apart with her fingers. The crust flakes against her shirt, and she brushes it away.

“Have you heard about our latest case?” Ron asks, mouth full of vegetable pastry. “These are really good,” he adds, wiping his fingers on his jeans.

“Is it a mobster?” Luna asks, eyes wide. “Because I think that would be fascinating.”

Hermione laughs. “What on earth would a mobster need a private investigator for?”

“Loads of things,” she says sagely, twisting her wineglass between her fingers.

“Such as?” her husband prompts.

“Yes,” Harry agrees. “I think we need to know, lest any rogue mobsters find our offices and start demanding investigative services.”

“Oh, you know, when they need to find out who an eyewitness is in order to,” Luna lowers her voice conspiratorially, “take care of him before he can testify against them in court. Or, perhaps, to investigate hidden assets to make sure some wise guy isn’t holding out on them.”

“No, love, you’ve got it backwards,” Rolf says. “It’s the wise guys that do the—how do they call it—the ‘shaking down,’ typically breaking kneecaps and whatnot when said assets are being withheld. Very barbaric.” He lights a cigarette with the tip of his wand and then casts a ventilation charm, banishing the smoke to god knows where.

Luna rolls her eyes and takes a rather large sip of wine. “Well, you know what I mean. And it doesn’t change my point, now, does it? There are reasons why a mobster might want to hire Harry and Ron.”

“Undoubtedly,” Harry agrees. He picks at the red and gold label of his bottle with his thumbnail. “But it would most likely be illegal…”

“And, despite any rumour to the contrary,” Ron chimes in, “we typically try to remain on the right side of legality.”

“Hear, hear.” Harry raises his beer in salute.

“Details,” Luna says over the lip of her wineglass.

Hermione laughs. “Well, I, for one, am quite glad they choose to pay attention to some details.” She rests her head on Ron’s shoulder. “Tell us about your case—the one without the mobsters.”

“It’s the Zabinis,” Harry says, standing. He walks into the kitchen for another beer.

“The Zabinis?” Hermione repeats. “Blaise and Pansy Zabini hired you?”

“In the flesh.” Harry sits down again. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Well, dear,” Rolf says to his wife, “Slytherins. Not quite mobsters, but nearly as good.”

“So what do they need a private detective firm for?” Hannah asks, opening another bottle of wine.

“Trade secrets, copyright infringement…” Harry ticks the reasons off on his fingers.

“Someone’s been stealing their potions,” Ron clarifies, folding his arms behind his head.

“Do you have any leads?”

“No, not yet,” Ron answers. “With the holiday we haven’t had the chance to begin our investigation, but it shouldn’t be too difficult to trace the magic, right Harry?” He slaps Harry on the back.

“Oh, yeah,” Harry says, nearly sputtering on his beer, “right.”

“Your tracking spells are incredible, Harry,” Hermione says. “In all my years at the Ministry, I’ve never seen anyone’s even come close to rivalling them.”

“That’s why he’s the Boy Hero,” Ron says with a grin.

“That’s why you’re such a brilliant detective,” Luna says. “It’s hardly fair, really.”

“Who do you think did it?” Neville asks.

And Harry almost answers. It would be so easy to lean forward, to open his mouth and share the most shocking secret the Wizarding world has heard in years. Four little words are all it would take. _Severus Snape is alive_.

His friends are discreet enough. No one would go running to _The Prophet_. And if something happened to find its way into the next edition of _The Quibbler_ , well, Harry doubts it would beat out the weekly installment of “Magical Beasts and Where to Find them” for the front page. Frankly, a Severus Snape sighting on page six would just be par for the course for Luna and Rolf’s publication.

But Harry doesn’t say anything.

Ron shrugs. “Someone with potions experience, for one. To determine the specific recipe from a purchased sample takes skill. Not to mention, the potions were then reproduced en masse afterwards.”

Hermione nods, taking a sip of wine. Her lip-gloss leaves a pink smudge on the glass. “He’s right, of course. It’d be nearly impossible to do—to replicate the exact formula with nothing but a sample.”

“And, from what I gathered,” Harry says, “Blaise and Pansy are worried that these potions might actually be superior to theirs.”

“Really?” Hermione asks. “The Zabinis said that?”

“Not in as many words. But they’re worried.”

“And their potions are good.” Hermione slides her finger around the lip of her glass. “Not as good as homebrewed, of course, but close. We’ve been purchasing from Snakes and Sceptres for two years.”

Ron laughs. “It’s true. Though don’t tell the Hermione of ten years ago. She’d have a fit!”

Hermione smacks him playfully on the arm. “Yeah, well, the Hermione of ten years ago didn’t have two kids, a husband who works far too many hours, and a department to run.”

Harry smiles. “She’s got a point there, mate.”

Neville takes swig of his beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Store bought has always been better than my homebrewed.”

“Key word being _your_ homebrewed,” Ron says, smirking at Neville.

“True,” he admits with a smile. “True.”

“So,” Luna says, “how will you solve the case? How will you determine who’s selling the potions?”

Harry leans back against the couch cushions. “A potion might be difficult to replicate, but it will still have a magical signature.” He runs a hand through his hand. “And I can trace any magical signature.”

“He can,” Ron says, draining the rest of his beer. “And we’re already checking the N.E.W.T.s for the last ten years. The potions work involved would require at least an Exceeds Expectations, so that will give us a place to start.”

Harry finishes his beer and goes to get another. His friends continue talking about work and family and booze, but Harry can’t focus on any of it. All he can think about is France. France and Severus Snape.

***

Harry is at his desk the next morning, case files open in front of him. He’s trying to balance a scrap of parchment on the tower of paperclips he’s been constructing for the last ten minutes.

He should be working.

For the first time in months, they’ve caught a lead on an infidelity case they’re working. Anderson finally spotted their client’s husband with the “other” woman, and Harry has enough information to identify her. But he can’t concentrate.

“Hey.” Ron sticks his head in the door, startling Harry. His paperclip tower tumbles down. “Yeah, you have to do a sticking charm on that, mate.”

Harry smiles. “That seems a bit like cheating, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Ron nods, “but it’s effective, nonetheless. What do you have?”

“We got a break on the Winfield case.”

“Seriously?” Ron sits down in the chair opposite Harry’s desk. “Because that guy is good.”

“I know. Never caught a phone call. Never saw them have a cup of coffee together. Nothing. We’ve been on it six months, running around in so many circles I was starting to get dizzy, but I think Anderson’s actually got something.”

“Good, good,” Ron says, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “ So,” he continues after a few moments' silence, “I asked Anderson about the Zabini case, and he said he gave his report to you last Friday.”

Harry rubs a hand across his face, pushing his glasses up to his forehead. “Yeah, he did.”

Ron frowns. “What’s going on? You said you hadn’t heard anything.” Harry hears only concern—not anger—in his voice, but he still feels like a complete arse. This is his partner; it’s not his place to keep information from him.

He stands, reaching for his coat. “Let’s go to the pub. I think this calls for a drink.”

The sun is out, but it does nothing to cut the winter chill. Harry buries his hands in his pockets as they head down Edgware towards Brendon Street. They don’t talk; Harry moves quickly to keep pace with Ron’s longer strides. A young woman passes them, head down, looking at her mobile. The wind whips at her hijab; the glass beads scattered across the cream silk glint in the sun.

Lord Wargrave Pub is quiet at this hour; there are only a few other patrons. There’s an older couple at a table in the corner, a bottle of wine open between them, and a man in a ball cap and work coveralls sits alone, a plate of chips and a pint in front of him.

Harry and Ron snag seats at the end of the bar. The bartender nods in greeting, wiping down the counter with a grimy rag before taking their order. Ron waits until they have their drinks before saying anything. “So,” he begins carefully, picking at the label of his beer bottle. “You planning to tell me what’s going on?”

Harry takes a long swig of his cider. His stomach is in knots; he shouldn’t feel anxious, but he is. “Severus Snape,” he manages.

“I’m sorry?” Ron frowns.

“It’s Snape. He’s the one making the potions.”

“Snape is dead, Harry,” Ron says slowly. “Voldemort killed him years ago.”

Harry can’t read his expression, but he can hear the worry in his voice. “He’s not,” Harry shakes his head. “He’s alive. He’s living in Paris, and he’s definitely still making potions.”

“Harry,” Ron says, “I know after the war you had those memories and all…” He slides his beer from one hand to the other; it leaves a slick line on the bar top. “But—”

“No,” Harry cuts him off. “He’s alive. I saw him. Hell, I talked to him.”

Ron’s eyes widen momentarily in surprise, but then he merely nods once before draining his beer. “Okay. Tell me about it.”

Harry does, starting with the magic he traced from the potion sample the Zabinis provided. He gave Anderson the coordinates derived from that trace, and he returned with the photograph of Snape outside his shop. He tells Ron about going to France and talking to Snape on Christmas Eve.

He does not mention following Snape to mass on Christmas Day.

Ron listens without interrupting, signalling the bartender for another round once Harry stops talking. “You didn’t put in for a Portkey—for either you or Anderson. I’d have seen the requisition invoice.”

Harry shrugs, cradling his pint glass between his palms. “I did the magic for Anderson’s Portkey, and I Apparated.”

“You didn’t register your Apparition coordinates, either.”

“No.”

Ron offers no reproach; he doesn’t even mention the technical illegality of his actions, and Harry’s grateful for it. Instead, he takes a long sip of beer, throat working as he swallows. He’s quiet for a few moments, and then he says, “All right. So, what do we know?” His voice is all business now, as though they’re discussing any other case and not their old ex-Death Eater professor, suddenly alive and well after being presumed dead for nearly two decades.

“Not much,” Harry admits, tracing a line of condensation down the side of his glass. “Though it’s his magic—I’m sure of that. He’s most likely brewing in the back of his shop in Paris. He owns a rare books store on the edge of the wizarding quarter in the 5th arrondissement. It’s funny, once I knew it was him—once I knew it was actually Snape—I _recognised_ his magic.” He shakes his head. “After all these years, it still feels the same.”

“I wonder how he’s remained hidden all this time,” Ron says, “especially if he’s been using magic. You’d think someone would have noticed.”

“I know.” Harry takes a drink; the cider is dry and crisp. “I thought so too, at first. But think about it—he was dead. We were sure of it. There would have been no reason to put a trace on his magic.”

“And if he’s living in the Wizarding section of Paris,” Ron says, “it would be virtually impossible to distinguish his magic from the magic around him.”

“Unless someone was really looking,” Harry finishes for him.”

“Exactly. Merlin, Harry,” Ron snorts, “that greasy, fucking bastard.”

“His body was gone. When we went back to the Shack after it was all over, Snape was gone.” He takes another drink. “We should have known.”

“No. We were there. We saw what happened.” Ron shakes his head. “Gods, I’ll never forget all that blood. And you know that snake was poisonous, too. It was logical to think that the Death Eaters took his body, not that he somehow miraculously survived.” Ron finishes his beer. “And how the fuck _did_ he survive?”

“I don’t know.” Harry’s thought about it. Snape was an exceptionally powerful wizard, but he still can’t fathom how Nagini’s bite was anything but fatal.

“And we looked for him, too,” Ron says, “but it’s not like we didn’t have other priorities.”

Ron’s right, of course. Harry knows he is. Though he killed Voldemort that night at the Battle of Hogwarts, the fighting didn’t end for weeks. They spent their days engaged in cleanup skirmishes with the remaining Death Eaters who hadn’t disappeared into hiding. “He was in Muggle hospital,” Harry says, “right there in Scotland.”

“He wanted to disappear,” Ron says. “That much is obvious. We weren’t going to find him. As much as we hated the man, you can’t deny how powerful he was…is,” he corrects. “Fuck. This is crazy.”

“I know,” Harry agrees.

“So,” Ron says after a few moments, “did you inform him of the Zabinis’ allegations and tell him he’s suspected of stealing trade secrets? That we are proceeding to build a case against him?”

“No.”

“No? But you said you talked to him.”

“Think about it, Ron. Snape was the premier Potions Master in all of Britain. He _taught_ Blaise and Pansy.”

It takes Ron a moment, but then he understands. “You think they’re his potions. The Zabinis are using his recipes.”

“I can’t be certain, of course, but I’d be willing to bet on it.”

“Okay.” Ron taps his fingers against the bar. “Now, what do we do?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Harry drags his thumb along the lip of his pint glass. “Snape’s clearly gone to great lengths to remain hidden. And, in order to clear the case, or at least convince the Zabinis to drop their allegations, he’ll need to come forward, and I’m not convinced he’ll be willing to do that.”

“The risk, of course,” Ron says, running a hand though his hair—it curls around his fingers before falling back into his eyes, “is that Blaise and Pansy continue their investigation with or without us, and eventually they’ll find him out, expose him.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Do you want me to arrange a Portkey?”

Harry finishes his cider. “No. I’ll Apparate.”

***

Harry Apparates to Paris the following afternoon. Snape’s behind the counter of his shop, reading a book.

“Mr. Potter,” he says, without looking up. “I didn’t think we’d see each other again.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry says, “we have a few things to talk about.”

“I’m quite sure we do not,” Snape says, closing his book. He looks up, dark eyes piercing Harry’s.

“The Zabinis hired me to find out who’s stolen their potions recipes. My investigation led me here.”

Snape’s glare is bone chilling.

Harry takes a deep breath. “They’re your recipes. I know that. They’re selling your potions, but they think you’re dead. And they think someone’s stolen their fucking secrets. They’ve hired a private investigation firm because of it. So, unless I can provide some answers, they’re going to keep searching, and I can guarantee that the next investigator won’t take your privacy into account once the magic leads him here.” Harry runs a hand through his hair, making it stand even more on end. “My bet is you’ll have Ministry officials on your doorstep that very day.”

“Colette?” Snape calls, and the young store clerk appears from the back room.

“ _Oui, Monsieur Prince_?”

“Pouvez-vous vous occupez de la boutique un moment ? Je vais prendre un café avec Mr Potter.”

She nods.

“Je serais de retour dans une demi-heure.”

The café next door is warm and brightly lit. Harry follows as Snape winds his way through the maze of tables to the counter. Snape orders black coffee, pulling a few Euros from his pocket to pay. He does not offer to get anything for Harry. Still, Harry manages in his admittedly wretched French to order a cup of hot chocolate. He also selects a croissant from the pastry assortment in the display case.

They sit by the window. Snape leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. Harry sips his hot chocolate, wincing when it burns his tongue.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape says, voice cool, “tell me about this case.”

“The Zabinis—Pansy married Blaise, you know…”

“Yes, I do keep track of my Slytherins—at least when they’re mentioned in the society pages.”

Harry nods. The Parkison-Zabini wedding had been an extravagant affair. Not quite to the scale of Malfoy’s marriage to Astoria Greengrass, but it certainly garnered its share of media attention. “Right, well, they brought their case to our firm two weeks ago. They had noticed a decrease in sales and, on further investigation, realised a single competitor was responsible for their loss in profits.” Harry cradles his mug between his hands; the porcelain is warm against his palms. “I’m not sure why they decided to analyse the rival potions, but their chemist determined that the samples were identical in makeup to their own.”

“Obviously, Potter,” Snape says, blowing steam off the top of his mug. “If they were using my recipes—which, if they had any sense, they should have done—then the resulting product would be the same. Ms. Parkinson Zabini and Mr. Zabini were both excellent Potions students, and even you, if I recall, were able to produce a superior potion or two on occasion when you had…” Snape raises an eyebrow, “the right resources at your disposal.”

Harry feels his cheeks warm at the reference to Snape’s old Potions text. It’s been years since he’s thought of the Half-Blood Prince. “But it doesn’t always work that way,” Harry says, picking apart his croissant; it flakes across his plate. “Otherwise all students would be able to brew perfect potions simply by following the correct steps.”

Snape rolls his eyes; the look he gives Harry makes him feel like an errant schoolboy once again. “Mr. Potter, surely you know it’s not so easy. Yes, the recipe is vital, as is the expertise and magic involved. A weak wizard will never be able to brew a superior potion, regardless of his recipes or procedures.”

“All right,” Harry says, setting his mug down. “What do you want to do about this?”

“Pardon?” Snape says, eyes narrowed.

“Well, you’ve clearly gone to great lengths—very successful lengths, I might add—to disappear…”

“And yet, somehow, you’re still sitting here with me.”

Harry takes a deep breath. Talking to Snape is like pulling teeth. “I’m here because I was hired to be here,” he says slowly. “And, if I don’t close the case, if I don’t find some answers for the Zabinis, then they will simply find someone else to do so.”

“And I will be exposed either way, correct?” Snape says after a long moment.

“I think so, yes.”

“I am not interested, Mr. Potter, in being dragged back to Britain as some sort of circus side-show, or, Merlin forbid, to stand trial for crimes I was pardoned of decades ago.”

“I understand,” Harry says, finishing his croissant; he wipes his fingers on his jeans. “Unfortunately, I am no longer in a position of any power or standing with the Ministry. Which is why I recommend that we work this out quickly and privately with the Zabinis.” He takes the last sip of hot chocolate. “If all parties can come to a mutual agreement, then I believe we can avoid any unnecessary or additional exposure.”

Snape nods, draining the last of his coffee. “At present, who, besides yourself, knows of my whereabouts?”

“Only Ron Weasley.”

Snape pales a bit at that; he cannot hide his look of consternation. “Weasley knows I am alive?”

“Yes. Ron is my partner and colleague. I cannot and will not keep vital case information from him.”

“And how do you know that he hasn’t already blabbed my location to his entire extended family and half of the patrons at The Leaky Calderon?”

Harry does not let Snape’s anger get to him. Snape only remembers Ron as a student—in fact, Snape would only remember any of them as students. “Because you have my word. Neither Ron nor myself would ever share sensitive information about a case or a client. Our associate, Leonidas Anderson, doesn’t even know the specifics. Though,” Harry admits, “he tracked down the initial lead. So he does have your address, and he took your picture.”

“My picture?”

“Yeah, but he’s barely out of Hogwarts. He didn’t recognise you.”

“That’s horridly reassuring.”

Harry shrugs. “We’re professionals, Snape. I promise you that.”

Snape drums his fingers on the tabletop before finally saying, “I need to think about this. As much as it pains me to say this, let’s talk again next week sometime.”

***

Gin drops the kids off just before six on New Year’s Eve.

They walk to Maroush for dinner. Harry orders a pot of tea and some falafel and halloum meshwi for starters. Jamie and Al fight over the tahini sauce, even though there's more than enough to go around, and Lily picks at a piece of the fried halloumi cheese and ignores her brothers.

“So,” Harry says, pouring tea into the four little white cups on the table, “what’s your mum and Michael doing for New Year's?”

“Some party,” James says without looking up. He has a pool of sauce on his plate and is busy coating a falafel.

“It’s the Malfoys’ annual New Year’s Eve party,” Albus clarifies. “They have one every year.” He takes a sip of tea. “Mum always complains about going to Wiltshire, but then she always has a good time.”

Ah, of course. Astoria and Draco Malfoy have thrown their New Year’s bash for years. Once upon a time, Harry would attend with Ginny. He continued receiving an invitation for a few years after their divorce, but he never had a date, and he never really wanted to go anyway. So, he would send his regrets; eventually the invitations stopped coming.

“Mum had a pretty dress,” Lily supplies between mouthfuls of fritters. “It was cream-coloured, with lace. It looked lovely with her hair.”

“I’m sure it did,” Harry says, forcing a smile.

“Helena didn’t go, though,” Lily continues. “Mum Floo’d her to Grandma and Grandpa Weasley’s for the rest of the weekend.”

“No kids were invited,” Al says matter-of-factly. “Scorpius was bloody pissed off about it, too.”

“Language!” Harry scolds, as Lily stifles a giggle.

Albus frowns. “Well, he was. Says we’re right old enough to attend. Should be allowed a glass of Champagne to celebrate, too.”

“I’m not sure about the Champagne,” Harry says, “but I’m sure that whenever the Malfoys decide Scorpius is old enough to be there, you’ll receive an invitation as well.”

The waiter arrives then to take their order. Harry selects the lentil soup and orders the shish taouk to split with Lily. Jamie gets the shawarma chicken, and Al asks for the dish of the day—as always.

“Don’t you care what it is?” James asks, after the waiter walks away. “You never even bother to ask.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Albus says, refilling his tea. “It’s always good.”

“Are we going to stay for the dancing?” Lily asks, once their food arrives.

Harry blows on his soup before taking a bite. Though Maroush caters to families and casual diners early in the evening, as the night goes on, the crowd changes. The restaurant is famous for its live music and the belly dancers that entertain well into the night. “Not tonight, love,” he says.

Lily pouts, spearing a cube of chicken with her fork. “Why? You know I like to watch.”

“I know. But today we would have needed a reservation. It’s New Year’s, and they’re having a party. Besides, I thought we’d walk down to the Marble Arch and watch the fireworks.”

Lily frowns, clearly considering, before finally nodding her head, red hair falling into her face. “Okay. I guess that will be fun.”

***

Two days later, a brown owl arrives at Harry’s flat. Lily’s sprawled on the floor in front of the fire, colouring. The boys are out flying their new brooms. Harry had taken one of the Galaxys out before breakfast, and now he’s seriously considering a trip to Quality Quidditch Supplies to buy one for himself.

He doesn’t recognise the owl. The creature extends his leg serenely, allowing Harry to take the letter secured there. Then he waits, eyeing Harry expectantly. Harry takes a step back, unrolling the slip of parchment. The message is brief. All it says is ‘ _Tomorrow, 2 pm. -S. Prince.’_ Harry scribbles a quick reply on the bottom of the note before returning it to the owl.

The owl only stares at him, though, yellow eyes blinking.

“Oh, right,” Harry says, understanding. He sprints into the kitchen, digging around in his cupboard for the owl snacks he knows are there somewhere. Finding the box, he grabs a handful and heads back to where Snape’s owl is waiting. The owl devours the treats happily before taking off through the open window. Harry watches for a few moments, until the bird is just a distant speck in the sky.

Lily is still colouring. She’s alternating her crayons, giving the unicorn in her book a multi-coloured mane.

Harry Firecalls Ron. When Ron answers, he’s got oven mitts on both hands and a Kiss the Cook apron tied over his jeans and Cannons t-shirt. “What’s up, mate?” he says, pulling the mitts off.

“Snape. He’s asked me to meet him tomorrow.”

“All right. Do you want me to come, too?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. I think it’s best if it’s just me.”

“Okay. So what’s the plan?”

Harry runs a hand through his hair; it curls round his fingers. He really needs a haircut. “The plan is to convince him to let us talk to the Zabinis. We have to tell them about Snape or they won’t drop the case.”

Ron nods. “What can I do?”

“Can I send the kids through tomorrow a bit before two?”

“Of course. I wasn’t planning on going to the office, and Hermione is off until Wednesday, when we put Rosie on the Express.”

“Sounds good,” Harry says, thanking Ron and closing the connection.

That evening, Kreacher makes tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner. Typically, Kreacher stays at Grimmauld Place. He prefers it there, and Harry has no need for an elf when he’s in his flat alone. But Kreacher comes to Edgware when there kids are there. He likes to dote on them, and Harry appreciates the help.

“I have to go to Paris for a few hours tomorrow,” Harry says, opening a beer, “so you’re going to go hang out at Uncle Ron’s and Aunt Hermione’s for a bit.”

“Will Rose be there?” Lily asks.

“Yes. Hugo, too.”

Lily takes a bite of her sandwich. “Okay, that sounds good.”

“Is it for a case, dad?” Albus asks, summoning the bottle of milk from the fridge with a flick of his wand.

“Hey!” Harry says. “No magic on holiday.”

Al rolls his eyes. “You know they can’t tell that it’s me.”

“Doesn’t matter. You know the rules.”

“Fine,” he says sullenly. He stares at Harry, making a show of pouring his milk by hand.

“And yes, it’s for a case. I’m hoping we’ve got it solved.”

“What happened, Dad?” Lily asks. “Did you find the bad guy?”

“Somebody was cheating on his wife,” Jamie says. “That’s what Dad and Uncle Ron do. They find cheaters.”

Albus laughs, dunking his grilled cheese in his soup. “Yeah, Mum always tells Michael that he better never do anything to hurt her because Dad would find out.”

“That’s right,” Harry says, taking a swig of beer. “No one will hurt your mum. I’ll make sure of that.”

Lily grins.

“Michael and Mum love each other anyway,” Jamie says.

“I know,” Harry agrees. “And this case wasn’t like that, anyhow. We thought someone was stealing potions, but, as it turns out, no one was.”

***

They’re back at the café next door to Snape’s shop. Snape had rolled his eyes when Harry ordered the hot chocolate again. He’d also selected a cheese Danish.

“What? It’s good,” he says, sitting down, already chewing on a bite of pastry.

Snape actually laughs, a sharp bark of sound, before taking a sip of his coffee.

“So,” Harry asks, after a few moments, “have you made a decision.”

“You may tell Mr. and Mrs. Zabini that the inventor of their prized recipes has use for his potions once again,” Snape says. “They may continue selling my potions, however, if they so choose. I will not ask for royalties.”

“Are you sure? Because you’re entitled to a portion of their profits. We can even get you back payments dating from the time they began selling your particular potions.”

But Snape is already holding up a hand. “No. They were my students. I taught them how to brew. I will not demand compensation. I only ask that they leave me alone. Drop this ridiculous case. It is, after all, completely without grounds.”

***

“Severus Snape?” Pansy says, her perfectly manicured eyebrows arching dramatically. “You mean _Professor_ Snape. Our former Potions Master, who has been dead for twenty years?”

“Yes,” Harry says, “that's the one.”

Blaise stands and walks around behind his wife's chair. “Let me get this straight. Are you trying to tell us that a man who died in 1998 is somehow selling our potions from a bookshop in France?”

Ron slides a manila file across the desk to Pansy. Her hand shakes slightly as she opens it. There are several colour photographs inside, each time-stamped and dated. In the first picture, Snape glares at the camera from behind the register at _Livres Rares_. In the second, he takes a sip of coffee, staring out the window at the café. In the third, he closes his shop, turning after he wards the door.

Pansy closes the file. “Is this a joke, Potter?”

“No.” Harry leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “It’s not. He didn’t die that night at the Battle of Hogwarts. We all thought he did, but he had a plan. You know what a powerful wizard he was. He survived, and he’s been in hiding ever since.”

Blaise picks up the file and flips through the photographs and case notes. “This is absurd.”

“Think about it,” Ron says. “Your potions—these recipes—where did you learn them? They were Snape’s recipes, weren’t they?”

“He taught us everything, Blaise,” Pansy says, and her voice is soft but steady. “Everything we know about brewing, about ingredients, about the effects of magic on chemical properties.” She shakes her head; her dark hair brushes against her cheekbone. “And then, of course, the potions. He was brilliant.”

Blaise sits down again beside his wife. “All right. So what do we do now?”

***

Snape frowns when the bell clangs loudly as the door closes behind Harry three days later.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape says, peering over the rims of his reading glasses, “as much as it pleased me to hear that the Zabinis dismissed their ludicrous accusations, your owl did an entirely sufficient job conveying that information. It hardly demanded a follow-up visit.”

“I know,” Harry says, flipping through the stack of journals stacked on the counter, “but I thought it called for a celebratory drink.”

Snape’s scowl is thunderous, but he puts down the book he’s holding.

“Besides,” Harry continues with a smile, “they don’t have hot chocolate like they do here in England.”

***

“Mr. Potter, as much as I enjoy a decent cup of coffee, I must say that your continued presence here remains a mystery.”

Harry laughs, poking at a marshmallow in his drink. “What can I say, Snape, I enjoy your company.”

At that, Snape looks utterly confused; it’s such an uncharacteristic expression on his face that Harry can’t help but laugh again. It’s the third time this week he’s Apparated to Paris once he’s left his office in the evening. The boys are back at Hogwarts, and Lily is at Gin’s until the following Thursday. It’s strange, but he actually finds himself looking forward to these visits. And though Snape always rolls his eyes so hard when he sees Harry that he thinks the man must give himself a headache, when Harry appeared at his shop yesterday, Snape was already reaching for his coat. And today he didn’t even have to ask Colette to mind the shop for him.

She just smiled and waved at Harry, before saying to Snape in heavily accented English, “Don’t worry, Mr. Prince. I be watching the store for you. Go and enjoy your coffee with Harry.”

“You enjoy my company?” Snape says slowly. “Of all the…” He shakes his head. “Surely you have better things to do with your time.”

“Nope,” Harry grins over the lip of his mug.

“Well, even if your fellow Gryffindors are too busy with their own mundane concerns to keep you entertained, surely you have more than enough young women vying for you attention to at least keep you in your own country.”

“No,” Harry frowns. “I don’t. Are you seeing anyone?”

It’s Snape’s turn to frown. “I hardly see how that’s any of your business.”

“Says the man who just insinuated that I have a slew of women beating down the door to my flat on a regular basis.”

Snape doesn’t respond. He merely glares at Harry over his coffee.

“I saw you on Christmas,” Harry says after a moment. “With that woman. I followed you to the church.”

Snape doesn’t get irritated as Harry expects. He only nods. “I thought I sensed magic. Still parading about under that damned cloak?”

Harry laughs. “No, actually I’m not. Haven't worn the cloak in ages.” Harry stashed the Invisibility Cloak at the bottom of his old school trunk years ago. It’s currently at the back of his closet, hidden away with an old Snitch and the shards of a broken mirror. “My kids don't even know I have the thing.” He smiles. “And it's going to stay that way.”

“Jacqueline,” Snape says then. “My ex-wife.”

“Wife?” Harry asks. He can’t mask the surprise in his voice.

“Ex-wife,” Snape repeats. “We were married for six years.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Why would you?” Snape asks, and Harry shrugs.

In all his investigations, he never thought to research Snape’s past relationships. It hadn’t been necessary, of course. But, in all honesty, that hadn’t been the reason he hadn’t done. Harry simply hadn’t ever considered the possibility that Snape could have a wife, a family. The man was always alone at Hogwarts, and he never struck Harry as someone who needed anyone, as someone who could love anyone. Except, perhaps, his mum, but that was the stuff of childhood. They were at war, though, and Snape was a spy. Harry knows now that no one—aside from Dumbledore, maybe—knew Snape at all.

“Do you have any children?” Harry asks. He doesn’t think so; surely, Snape would have mentioned them by now. But then, Harry didn’t know he’d been married, so he’s not sure of anything, really.

But Snape only laughs. “No. I had more than enough children at Hogwarts to last a lifetime.”

“But you married,” Harry says, curling his hands around his mug. It’s warm against his palms.

“I’m not sure I ever thought I would,” Snape says. “Jacqueline was an assistant in my shop. I didn’t expect to fall in love with her.”

Harry laughs then, and Snape frowns. “What?”

“Nothing. I was just remembering something Sirius said once.”

“Then I’m quite certain I don’t want to know.”

“Most likely not,” Harry agrees, taking a sip of his cocoa.

Snape’s glare makes Harry laugh even harder. “Fine, fine,” he says, “it’s just that Sirius always said that you didn’t like women in that way.”

It’s Snape’s turn to laugh. “I’m sure that’s _exactly_ what he said, too.”

Harry grins. “In so many words.”

“Well, I suppose I could say the same thing about you.”

“I’m sorry?” Harry says, confused.

“You also married,” Snape says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. “Though half my Slytherins would have sworn you preferred to fuck men.”

Hearing Snape say the word ‘fuck’ sends not unpleasant shivers down Harry’s spine. He sets his mug down. “Well, then,” he says, doing his best to keep his voice steady, “it would seem we have something in common, after all.”

***

“What do your children think, Potter, with you running off to France every evening?”

“It’s not _every_ evening,” Harry says, licking cream from his fingers. He ordered the éclair today. “But the boys are at school, anyway, and Lily’s with her mum this week.” Harry leans in, as though he’s about to impart a secret. “You know, my middle child actually sorted Slytherin this year.”

“I seem to recall Minerva mentioning something to that effect.”

“Minerva?” Harry asks startled. “Minerva knows you’re here?”

Snape nods. “After the final battle, once I left the hospital, I was still weak. My magic needed time to recover. I’d sold the house at Spinner’s End, and I needed a place to stay until I was strong enough to Apparate to Paris.”

“You came back to Hogwarts,” Harry says, understanding.

“Yes, for a week or so.”

“We looked for you, but we never thought to check the school.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Snape says. “I assume you thought my body had been taken by Death Eaters?”

Harry nods. “Yes.”

“Hogwarts was the safest place I could be. My rooms were heavily warded, and I knew no one would think to look for me there.”

“And you still talk to her?” Harry asks. “To Minerva?”

“On occasion,” Snape answers, sipping his coffee. “I hardly believed her when she told me that a Potter had sorted Slytherin.”

Harry smiles. “I suppose Al takes after his namesake.”

“Despite all rumours to the contrary,” Snape says tartly, “Albus Dumbledore was, without a doubt, a Gryffindor.”

“Not Dumbledore,” Harry says, finishing his éclair. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You.”

“What?”

“My son’s name is Albus Severus. I named him after you.”

Snape looks positively scandalised. “What in Merlin’s name did you do that for?”

Harry laughs, but his voice is low. “We were wrong about you, Snape. We all were.”

“For Christ’s sake, Potter, you were _supposed_ to be. My life depended on it. And it certainly doesn’t give you cause to do such a ridiculous thing!”

“It’s a good name,” Harry says simply.

“Perhaps. If you wish to give your child a complex.”

Harry throws his napkin at Snape.

***

“You're hot, Snape.”

“And you're pissed.”

“Most likely.” Harry nods sagely. They’re at a bar three blocks from Snape’s shop. It's not the first time they've come here instead of going to the café, but it’s the first time Harry’s been so drunk. “Doesn't change what I think, though,” Harry says, proud that he doesn’t slur the words.

Snape shakes his head and laughs. “Then you're an even larger imbecile than I remember you being back in school.”

“Nah,” Harry says, draining his beer. “You don't think I'm an imbecile. You wouldn't like me so much if you thought I was an imbecile.”

“You think I like you?” Snape asks, and though his face is entirely blank, Harry swears he hears a slight waver in his voice.

“Yeah, I do.” Harry leans forward a fraction of an inch. For a moment, he feels Snape's body heat flash hot against his skin. But then Snape pushes his chair back from their table. “What I think is that you'll be Floo'ing home tonight. I'd prefer you not splinch yourself somewhere over the Channel.”

***

Snape’s shop is already dark, the door locked, when Harry Apparates to Rue Mouffetard. He bangs on the door, though. After a few minutes, he sees a light go on and hears Snape muttering as he comes down the stairs. The man’s dressed in only his shirtsleeves, white cotton tucked into black wool trousers. His feet are bare; it’s strangely intimate.

“Oh, Potter,” he says opening the door with a frown. “I didn't expect you. I thought you had your daughter this week.”

“Yeah, I did,” Harry says glumly, “until Gin Floo'd around noon to say she and Michael decided to take her to the shore for a few days.”

Snape steps back, motioning for Harry to come inside. The door closes behind him, and Snape waves a hand, warding it again. Harry feels the crackle of his magic like static against his skin. “Well, come on,” Snape says, turning and heading up the stairs. “I was just cleaning up after dinner.”

Harry follows Snape up into his rooms above the shop.

He's never been in Snape's living quarters before and he stands for a moment at the top of the stairs looking around.

There's a cosy sitting area with two overstuffed chairs flanking the hearth. A fire burns brightly, warming the small space, and casting shadows on the worn Aubusson rug that covers the wood floor.

The heavy shelf against the wall is overflowing with books, and Snape's desk sits in a corner, piles of nearly stacked papers lining its surface.

There's a narrow hallway off to the right, leading—Harry presumes—to the bedroom, and the sitting room opens to a narrow galley kitchen, with cheerful yellow walls and spotless black-and-white-tiled countertops.

Harry watches as Snape clears the small table. With a flick of his wand, he sets the dishes washing in the sink. “Is everything satisfactory to you?” Snape asks wryly, startling Harry from his thoughts.

“Oh, yeah, of course. It's nice up here.”

“I'm so glad you approve, Potter,” Snape says, a subtle lilt to his voice that settles pleasantly in the pit of Harry’s stomach. “So, tell me,” he continues, sitting down by the fire, “why it is that your ex-wife took your daughter to the shore when it's supposed to be your time with her?”

“It's not a big deal, really,” Harry says, but Snape raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. Harry takes the chair opposite him and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. He sighs. “Gin hasn't seen her brother in a while. Bill and Fleur were in France with Fleur's family for Christmas, and the baby's getting bigger, so Gin thought it'd be nice to take a few days. They'll be back Tuesday.”

“None of which are compelling reasons as to why she needed to take your time with Lily.”

“I know,” Harry says, and he can hear the resignation in his voice. “But it's not worth fighting her.”

Snape looks at him for a long moment and something softens in his eyes. “You're a good father.”

“I try to be.”

“No, you are. It's difficult to maintain a companionable relationship with one's ex, especially when children are involved.”

“It's important. And I took the kids to the States for two weeks last summer. Took some of Gin's days.”

Snape crosses his legs, resting an ankle on the other knee. “Did you tell her the day of, that you were taking your children when she was supposed to have them?”

“Well, no. We'd arranged it a month or so in advance. Do you remember Lee Jordan? He married an American girl, and he's teaching Charms at Salem Institute. The kids and I went to New York for a few days and then spent time in Boston and Salem.”

“That sounds lovely. But I don't see how it compares to what Ginevra did this weekend.”

Harry shrugs. “It doesn't, I suppose. And it does upset me, you know. I look forward to getting Lils.”

“Of course.” Snape looks at Harry for a long while, as though considering. “So,” he finally says, “Do we need to go get a drink?”

“Yes.”

It's cold out. Snape pulls on his overcoat and gray knit scarf as they head down the stairs. It's several blocks to the bar. Harry shoves his hands in his pockets and walks quickly to keep pace with Snape's longer strides.

The pub is crowded. Music spills out onto the street from the band inside. Harry snags a table in the corner. “Do you want your usual?” Snape asks, and something warm curls in Harry's stomach at the thought that Snape knows his usual.

But he doesn't want beer tonight. “No,” he says, “tonight calls for whisky. I think I'll take _your_ usual.” Snape nods, and winds his way through the crowd.

They sit close together. Harry’s thigh is practically pressed against Snape’s as they sip their drinks. “I do think she takes advantage of me sometimes,” Harry says rather sullenly. He twists his glass between his hands. “But it’s not worth fighting. Especially not when the kids are involved.”

Snape doesn’t say anything, but he nods.

“You’re still friends with your ex-wife,” Harry says.

“I am. But she’s in another relationship. We do not see each other very often.”

“You saw her on Christmas.”

“Yes. But her partner is Anglican,” Snape says, distaste clear in his voice. “So we go to mass together.”

“Damn Anglicans.” Harry laughs. “My aunt and uncle were Anglican. Never went to church, though.”

“My nan was Catholic,” Snape confides after a moment. “Christmas mass was tradition.”

After that, they drink in silence for a while. The band starts a new set, and Harry sips at his whisky, enjoying the music.

“That woman is looking at you.” Harry indicates a table two over from theirs. He's finished his drink. The ice settles as he sets his glass on the table. There are two women watching them, a bottle of red wine open between them. One of them smiles and waves, and Harry smiles back.

“I think they’re looking at you,” Snape says. “Women seem to like your ridiculous hair and glasses.

Harry grins at him. “I think you like my hair and glasses.”

“Possibly,” Snape says, looking away.

“I _am_ pretty attractive,” Harry jokes, and Snape scowls. “Should we go talk to them?”

“No,” Snape says, “though you’re welcome to. Personally, I've had enough women for the time being.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Harry goes to the bar and returns with another round. “The bartender liked my accent,” he brags. “Said it was refined.”

“I think, perhaps, he meant undignified.”

“Maybe,” Harry says with a laugh. “But I think he’d fuck me.”

“Undoubtedly,” Snape says and his voice is cold.

Harry looks at Snape then, but the man looks away.

“I think you'd fuck me,” he says after a moment, and his voice is steady but his heart is pounding in his throat.

Snape looks at him again, dark eyes fixed on his. Harry can feel the weight of his stare burn hot against his skin. “I would.”

Harry swallows thickly.

Snape sips his drink as if Harry’s entire world hasn’t shifted off its axis.

“You would?” he asks, and this time his voice shakes.

“Yes.” Snape finishes his drink. Ice clinks against the glass.

Harry stands. “Okay.”

They don't talk on the way back to Snape’s flat. Harry’s palms are sweaty; he can hardly breathe. He thinks perhaps it’s been coming to this for a long while.

He’s hard by the time they reach Snape’s rooms. Snape closes the door and pushes Harry against it. “You want this, don't you?” Snape asks, and his voice is rough.

“Yes,” Harry says, leaning his head back against the door as Snape bites at his throat, teeth stinging as they nip at his skin.

Snape sinks to his knees, fingers tugging at Harry’s belt. “I'm going to suck you off.” And hearing those words come out of Snape’s mouth is more arousing than anything Harry can possibly imagine.

“Please,” Harry says. “God, yes, please.”

He almost comes the moment Snape curls his fingers around his cock. He groans, eyes fluttering closed. Snape says, “No,” breath warm against his cockhead. “Look at me.” And Harry does as Snape sucks him into his mouth. His tongue slides along the length of him, slick and warm, and Harry shudders, stomach clenching. He presses his palms flat to the door.

“Fuck Snape, fuck...”

Snape pulls back, lips slipping off Harry's cock with a wet pop. “I'm going to suck you until that pretty cock of yours comes down my throat. Then I'm going to take you to bed and I'm going to fuck you.”

“Oh my _god,_ ” Harry gasps and Snape closes his mouth around Harry once more. “Say that again.”

“What?” Snape asks, lips still around his cock. “That I'm going to finger you open until you beg me to fuck you? That you’ll be on your back so you’re looking at me when you come? Or maybe that I'm going to fuck you so hard you feel it tomorrow?”

“Fuck,” Harry says again as Snape sucks him into his mouth. His tongue swirls around Harry’s cockhead, and it’s suddenly too much. Harry cries out, coming hard.

Snape swallows, sitting back on his knees as Harry sinks down to the floor. “Wow.”

“Yes,” Snape says, leaning forward, pressing his lips to Harry’s. It’s the first time they’ve kissed. Snape’s mouth is dry and warm, and Harry can taste his spunk on his tongue. It’s enough to make him hard again.

“The bed, Mr. Potter,” Snape says, pulling back.

“Harry,” he manages, “call me Harry.”

“Harry,” Snape says, taking his hand in his and helping him to his feet.

Snape’s room is small, but his bed is soft and warm. Harry watches as Snape unbuttons his shirt; it falls off his shoulders. His chest is thin and pale.

Harry leans back against the pillows, his erection tenting his jeans.

“Take them off,” Snape says, voice rough, and Harry does, fingers fumbling as he slides them down with his pants.

“You're gorgeous.” Snape’s words slide hot like whisky over Harry’s skin, and the man’s eyes are dark, pupils blown as he leans over Harry, pushes him back against the bed. And Harry can feel Snape’s cock, hard against his stomach through the soft wool of his trousers as he presses against him, mouth finding his again.

They kiss for a while, Harry rutting up against Snape, and Harry thinks he might come again from friction alone. He gasps, fingers scratching against Snape's back. “Please,” he whispers, “now.”

Snape sits back on his knees, belt hanging open, cock pressed hard against the placket of his trousers.

“I want to see you.”

Snape nods, but hesitates. “I am not...” he begins, “I have not...”

“It’s okay,” Harry says. “I want you.”

“I…I know.”

Harry places his hands on top of Snape’s then and together they pull his trousers down. Snape leans over to rummage in the bedside cabinet. He finds a vial of lubricant, and Harry’s breath catches at the sight of Snape pouring it out into his palm. Some of it drips onto the cream cotton of his sheets. “Here,” Snape says, “part your legs. Let me get you ready for me.”

Harry lets his legs fall open, watching as Snape slicks oil around his hole. Slowly, Snape slips a finger inside, and Harry gasps at the press and sting.

“Are you okay?” Snape asks, and his voice is surprisingly gentle.

“Yeah,” Harry manages. “Yeah. It’s just been a while.”

Snape smiles at that, a genuine twist of thin lips, and pushes another finger inside. “Good. You’ll be tight for me.”

Harry shudders, forcing himself to relax against the intrusion of Snape’s fingers. His cock is hard and leaking against his belly. “Now,” he says, voice strained. “It needs to be now. Fuck me.”

Snape nods, pulling his hand away. He slicks the remnants of lube on his cock. Harry watches his long fingers as they curl round his shaft before sliding up his length to tug at his foreskin.

“ _Fuck._ ”

“Yes,” Snape says, voice tight. “Yes.”

He holds himself above Harry carefully as he lines himself up, but he doesn’t press his cock in. “It's been a while,” Snape says, hesitating, and his voice is low and rough.

Harry reaches up, traces the puckered scar along Snape’s throat. It’s silvery and smooth under his fingers. “Me too.”

Snape nods then and slowly begins to push inside. It hurts at first and Harry cries out, but the pain of it quickly bleeds away as Snape’s cock slips past the tight ring of muscle there. He pauses, hips resting against Harry’s, and Harry swears he hears the man say, “Fuck,” under his breath.

Snape sucks at Harry’s neck as he pulls out, then pushes back in slowly, and Harry focuses on the sharp edge of Snape’s teeth and not the burn in his arse. Snape’s hips move slowly at first and it’s careful and precise and perfect—so perfect—and Merlin, _of course_ Snape fucks like this, and Harry can’t help but gasp and clench around Snape’s cock.

Snape reaches between them then, wrapping his hand around Harry’s cock and, though Harry came just minutes ago, nothing, nothing has felt this good in such a long time. It’s been ages since Harry has had anyone in him, and he knows if he doesn’t come with Snape inside him, he’s going to combust.

But Snape pulls his hand away. “Wait. I'm close.”

Harry bites his lip, twisting his fingers in the sheets, as Snape pushes his knees open a bit more. He closes his eyes as Snape thrusts into him again, hands grasping Harry’s biceps so hard there’ll be bruises tomorrow.

“God,” Harry gasps, “yes, please. _Please_.”

And Snape shudders above him, hips stilling. “Look at me,” Snape says and Harry does, eyes wide as he comes, cock spurting onto his stomach as Snape orgasms deep inside him.

Harry collapses back against the pillows and gasps as Snape’s cock slips from his body. “That was brilliant,” he says and Snape grunts in what he assumes is acknowledgment because that was definitely the best sex Harry has had in a long time. All he wants to do is curl up beside Snape and sleep for a week.

But Snape rolls over, leaving an ocean of rumpled sheets between them. He looks at Harry and there's something in his expression that Harry can't quite read, but it causes something cold to pool in his gut.

“I'm sticky,” Harry says, trying to ignore the sense of unease that’s settled over him. “But I don’t think I care. ‘M hungry, too.” He flops backwards, arranging the pillows beneath him as he tries to get comfortable. “I bet the café serves good breakfast. Want to sleep for a bit, then go get some pastries and coffee?” He smiles. “Well, you can have coffee. I'll probably get hot chocolate because, you know, it's so good...” He’s rambling now, but Snape hasn't said anything; he hasn't even moved from where he's perched on the side of the bed. And Harry can see the tension in his shoulders, in the straight line of his spine.

“Hey,” Harry tries, reaching out to touch Snape. But the man stiffens, and pulls away.

It feels as though a stone has dropped in Harry's stomach.

“We most certainly won't be getting breakfast, Mr. Potter,” Snape says, and his voice is cutting and cruel and nothing like it was just minutes ago when Snape was inside him. “I don’t recall,” he continues, “even asking you to stay the night.”

With that, Snape stands and walks to the bathroom without looking back. The door clicks shut behind him.

Harry climbs shakily to his feet. He pulls on his jeans, ignoring the spunk that seeps down between his legs, and uses his t-shirt to dab at the drying come on his stomach before tugging it on once again. He finds his jumper in the corner and pulls it over his head.

A thin line of light spills from beneath the closed door; Harry can hear the rush of water in the sink, but Snape does not come back and Harry turns on the spot, Apparating to the darkness of his empty flat.

***

Harry goes in to the office the next day. They have a full caseload, and he’s got plenty of work to do, but instead he just sits at his desk and stares out the window.

Snape is not a nice man. Harry knows this; it was foolish to put himself in a position where he could get hurt. The sex was good—really good—but that’s all it was. He should never have expected anything else.

Ron pops into his office around ten. “What are you doing here? It’s Sunday.” He frowns, seeing Harry’s glum expression. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just had some work to catch up on.”

Ron nods. “Mum told me that Gin took Lily for the weekend.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, tapping his pen again the file jacket open in front of him.

“Sorry about that,” Ron says, and his voice is kind. “I know she’s my sister and all, but it’s bloody awful when she does that to you.”

“Thanks,” Harry says. And though he’s still irritated about his daughter, he’s pleased that Ron’s assumed that’s why he upset. He’s not about to explain what happened with Snape to Ron right now. “You know I hate it when she misses school, but it’s only two days, and I’ll see her Tuesday.”

“That’s true, and I’m sure she’ll be excited to tell you about her trip.” He stands there for a moment longer before saying, “Well, I just stopped in to pick up the notes on the McDaniels case. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Harry nods. “I’ll be in around nine.”

***

An owl arrives three days later. Harry and Lily have just sat down to dinner, takeaway containers spread out on the table between them. The sweet and tangy smell of Kung Pao chicken fills the kitchen.

They both look up at the soft tap tap tap on the window. Snape’s brown owl peers in at them through the glass. Harry frowns, curious as to what Snape could want, but Lily’s already dashed over to let the owl inside. “Hey buddy,” she says, stroking its head softly before handing the letter to Harry.

Something twists in Harry's stomach at the sight of Snape's narrow handwriting.

_On further reflection, I've decided that a meal might be an agreeable prospect after all. In lieu of the breakfast you suggested, will you join me for dinner tomorrow at 7 o’clock?_ There’s a Parisian address followed by a brief post script. _Since you’ve clearly no aversion to international Apparition, I took the liberty of selecting the restaurant._

Harry smiles, rummaging in the cupboard for the owl snacks before scribbling down a quick reply.

***

“So, er, Snape?” Ron asks over the lip of his beer.

It's been two months, and Harry's been seeing Snape fairly regularly. So regularly, in fact, that he can no longer deny that there's something between them. It’s bizarre, but Harry’s happy. Happier than he's been in a long time, so he tries to ignore how strange it is to be dating Snape.

Harry Floos to Snape’s flat several times a week. Sometimes they go out to dinner or for a drink. Other times they stay in. Snape has a TV set and an unexpected penchant for watching Muggle crime dramas. Harry likes to make fun of the substandard detective practices the TV coppers ubiquitously rely on.

Snape has not been back to England.

Harry understands. They all have their demons, and Snape simply isn't ready to face some of his yet.

Aside from himself, Ron and Hermione, and the Zabinis, only a few people know that Snape is alive.

Minerva, of course, has known all along. Harry told Ginny when he dropped Lily off a few weeks ago. They’ve been divorced for over seven years now, and he's still shit at keeping secrets from Gin. She’d known he was seeing someone almost before he was ready to admit it to himself.

Arthur and Molly also know, and Kingsley, too.

Shacklebolt is Minister of Magic now, but he was Head Auror during Harry's time on the force, and they’ve remained close. After a lengthy discussion, Harry convinced Snape that it would be prudent to inform Kingsley. The man is discreet and, should Snape ever decide to return to London, Harry knows the Minister will be able to help him maneuver any issues he might encounter.

“Yeah,” Harry says, picking at a thread on the sleeve of his jumper, “I think so, mate. I think so.”

Ron nods and takes a long swig of beer. “Well, you’ve certainly been with worse blokes.”

Harry laughs. Coming from Ron, that’s practically a blessing.

“You're probably right about that.”

“Sure, he’s a right git,” Ron says, “but you seem to like him anyway. And it’s not as though he can give you detention anymore.” Ron pauses, scrunching up his nose as if he’s smelled something foul. “Or, if he does, I'd rather not know about it.”

“Got it,” Harry says, “no talk of any professor-student role playing games.”

Ron snorts, bumping him with his shoulder. “He's employed, too,” Ron continues. “That's a plus. Unlike, what's his name? Oscar, or Ollie, or…”

“Oliver,” Harry says, “and he was in between jobs at the time.”

“ _Right,_ ” Ron says stretching the word out for effect. “In between becoming an artist and learning how to make macaroni.”

“It was macramé, and I agree, I am far too old for a guy who lounges about in his pants till half eleven most days.”

“True,” Ron says draining his beer. The bottle clinks against the bar top when he sets it down again. “And, I have it on good authority that Snape’s involved in nothing illegal.”

Harry nods. “Yes, I had one of London's top private investigation firms look into it.”

Ron throws his head back and laughs, a loud bark of sound. “Then I'd say you're good to go.”

Harry finishes his beer and smiles. “I think I am.”

***

Lily has the unfortunate tendency to sick up whenever she Apparates. So Harry doesn’t dare chance an international Side-Along.

Together, they Floo to Snape’s flat. Harry stumbles, nearly falling as they step from the hearth. Lily laughs, brushing ash from her corduroy dress.

“Shut it,” Harry says fondly, and Lily erupts into a fit of giggles.

“But Dad, you’re so good at magic. Why can’t you manage the Floo?”

“The child has a point, you know.”

Harry looks up. Snape is sitting in the armchair by the fire. There's a book open on his lap, and a glass of whisky on the table beside him. Harry smiles. “Yes, well, not all of us had the advantage of Floo’ing before we could even walk.” He ruffles Lily's hair affectionately.

“Of course not,” Snape agrees. “And to think of those of you who started at the ripe old age of eleven. One wonders how you ever managed to learn at all.”

“Exactly,” Harry says with a grin, and Snape rolls his eyes.

Lily is staring, hand clenching Harry’s tightly. She’s not usually shy, but Snape can intimidate the best of them. “Lily, this is Professor Snape,” Harry says. “He's the man I've been telling you about.”

She tilts her head to the side, eyeing him critically. “You used to teach at Hogwarts—a long time ago when Dad and Mum were there.”

“I did,” Snape says. He's watching her closely, face impassive; Harry can't read his expression.

“Dad didn't like you much,” she adds. “But Mum says you were okay.”

Snape laughs. “Did she?”

The girl nods, looking around. “Dad says you're nicer now, though. Now that you're living in France and reading books.”

“Well that's good to know.” Snape takes a sip of his drink. Ice clinks against cut crystal.

“Dad also says you knew my grandma,” Lily adds after a moment. “The one I'm named after.”

“Your dad says a lot of things, apparently,” Snape answers, setting his glass down again.

“Yeah,” Lily agrees. “Did you?”

Snape watches her for a few moments, dark eyes fixed on her green ones. “I did. She had red hair just like you.”

Lily smiles. “I know. Dad says we look a lot alike. We've seen pictures, you know.”

“I’m sure you have. But I had the privilege of knowing her personally. We met when we were just about your age.”

“Really?” Lily lets go of Harry's hand and takes a few steps towards Snape.

He nods. “She was one of the most beautiful girls I've ever known.” Snape stands, smoothing his palms down his thighs. “And she was a very talented witch.” Snape's expression is distant, and Harry can tell he's remembering things from a long time ago, but then Snape looks at him, and his features soften instantly.

Harry smiles, something warm twisting in his stomach. He knows it's impossible to compete with a dead woman, but he also knows now that it's not really a competition at all.

“Now,” Snape says, “I know you didn't come all this way to talk about your grandmother.”

“Nope,” Lily replies. “I came for hot chocolate.”

“Right,” Snape says. “Then we'd best get going.” He takes his coat from the back of the chair. “I know just the place.”

-The End-

  



End file.
